


After the Fall

by nomical



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hallucinations, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomical/pseuds/nomical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first time John had imagined Sherlock's voice, he had been terrified."</p><p>Follows John's first week after Sherlock's death and the funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fall

            “Sherlock!”

            John woke from his nightmare suddenly, the bed shaking as he jolted upright. Feeling uncomfortably warm, he kicked off the blankets and began pacing in rapid circles around the room in an attempt to work off some nervous energy. He took a few short breaths and puffed them out again. He gave his shoulders a few shakes and wiggled his fingers before sitting calmly on the edge of the bed, the only evidence of his duress the sweat in his hair and on his back.

            This nightmare was just like the rest of them. Sherlock stood poised on the edge of the roof of Barts. Tonight’s variation had John standing on the roof with him, but trapped about five meters behind him in the center of the roof, held back by some invisible hand. John knew better than to struggle.  He’d had this nightmare frequently enough that he could recognize when he was in it, but that didn’t stop him from trying to break free anyway. Once again he watched in horror as his flatmate made his phone call, his last phone call, and spoke to some other John down at street level.  As Sherlock neared the end of his call (John knew his speech by heart) he turned around and faced John where he struggled desperately to run to the edge of the building. Sherlock’s face was streaked with tears and John could see grief contorted under a mask of calm. “Goodbye John” was all he said before taking a step backwards and falling off the roof. It was at this moment, always this moment and no sooner, that John was able to break out of the confines of his invisible prison. He shouted Sherlock’s name in chorus with his invisible counterpart on the street in vain. It was too late. It was always too late. But that didn’t stop John from diving off the roof after his best friend.

            Ella, being a well-meaning therapist, had tried to explain the science of nightmares to him in an attempt to arm himself against his unconscious mind. She said one of the most common ways people wake themselves up during sleep was by falling. If you fall in your dreams, your brain panics and sends out a veritable lightning storm of activity (her words, not his). This wakes you up mid-fall and you can escape the nightmare whenever you want.

            John always hits the ground in his dreams. It is the impact of his body and his bones breaking that causes him to thrash in his sleep, making the bed bounce and waking him up. Despite what Ella thinks, John never tries to stop the nightmares. As difficult as it is to keep seeing your best friend die over and over again, in the back of his mind John knows that is the only way he will ever be able to interact with Sherlock again. It’s masochistic and John knows Ella would not approve, but he really doesn’t give a damn.

            John looked over at the clock on his bedside table. 6:15 a.m. Thursday, June 23rd.  The day of Sherlock’s funeral. John forced himself to stand up, grab his cane, and start the day.

 

***

 

            John paid for the entire funeral.

            Mycroft objected of course, “Come now John, you don’t have to break the bank over this. I have more than adequate funds, and after all, he was my brother, not yours.”

            John ignored him and emptied his meager savings account for the ceremony. When asked why, John could not give a proper answer. All he knew was that he felt honour-bound somehow to pay. He tried to justify it in his mind by telling himself Sherlock would rather die than accept Mycroft’s help. This thought procured a rather humourless laugh as Sherlock did die rather than turn to his brother. After this realization, John did not think about his need to pay for the funeral anymore.

            Mrs. Hudson arranged everything for the ceremony. While John insisted on footing the bill, he’d be damned if he was going to go traipsing around London wondering what flowers Sherlock would like best (probably something poisonous) or what style of box he’d like to spend all of eternity in (not all of eternity John, the average human male body only takes around 50 years to decompose). No, John wanted no part in the planning, he just wanted to pay for it and get it over with.

 

***

 

            As John brushed his teeth, a deep voice interrupted the silence. 

            "Bored," was all it said.

 

***

 

            The first time John had imagined Sherlock's voice, he had been terrified.  It had been two days after the fall and he had been sitting at home, trying to distract himself and reading an article in the paper about an explosion in a subdivision of Edinburgh. The paper labeled the explosion as a possible terrorist attack, led by a 19-year-old Ronnie MacPherson. John was halfway down the page when a voice in his head that was quite different from his usual internal monologue said "wrong".  John had thrown the paper on the floor and turned the apartment upside down, looking for any kind of electronic device that could have emitted _that_ voice. When he found nothing he began to panic. After all he'd gone through as a soldier and a doctor, seeing countless patients and soldiers die, it was losing this one man that had finally caused his mind to break? No, he was a Watson goddamn it, Watsons suffered life's hardships stoically and did not go crazy.

            Over the next few days the voice popped up again, never staying for long, just making comments on whatever John was doing or reading or thinking. John grew accustomed to the voice quickly and began welcoming its presence (anything to hear that voice again). On the fourth day, he realized that it mostly materialized when John was doing something wrong, almost like it was chiding him. Even the imaginary, disembodied voice of Sherlock was an annoying dick eager to prove his brilliance. This thought was a great comfort to John.

 

***

 

            John spit out the remaining toothpaste and began lathering up to shave. 

            "Bored," the sultry voice whined again. 

            John felt mildly annoyed, both at the fact that imaginary Sherlock felt that personal hygiene was boring when clearly the man had spent a great deal of time on his own appearance, and at the fact that he had labelled the voice as "sultry".

            "Bored," the voice went off for a third time, clearly agitated that the menial task of shaving was continuing. He ignored it and placed the razor on his neck, making the first stroke.  John thought he heard a tiny sigh and smiled to himself as he kept shaving.

 

***

 

            The wake itself was held at Leverton & Son's under a cool cloudy morning sky. John opened the cab door for Mrs. Hudson, helping her out, then offered his arm to escort her up the steps, leaning heavily on his cane with his other hand. 

            "Thank you, Dear. I should check in with Mr. Leverton and make sure everything is going alright," Mrs. Hudson detached herself from John and was quickly lost in the crowd.

            The room was surprisingly full. Surely Sherlock could not have had all these acquaintances that John had never heard of, let alone met. He was beginning to wonder if Mycroft had paid them to be there out of some bizarre form of compassion when Lestrade walked over to him.

            "How are you holding up?" he asked. 

            John made a non-committal noise and shrugged his shoulders.

            "Listen, I can't stay. The chief didn't want me coming anywhere near this," Lestrade gestured vaguely with his hand, "’cause of the inquiry and all, but it just didn't feel proper not coming down. He was a great man, Sherlock. I never should have doubted him. Anyway, I just felt like I should pass on my condolences to someone and that brother of his scares the hell out of me, so you're the next best thing."

            He clapped John on the shoulder. "I'll see you around John, maybe we can go for a drink when this all blows over."

            John nodded and Lestrade pulled his hat down low over his face and flipped up his collar, clearly hoping not to be recognized. John smiled momentarily, Lestrade's actions reminding him of another dective flipping up his collar. But then the pleasant part of the memory was gone and John was hit by a wave of anguish.

            Trying to shield himself from the pain, John went back to puzzling out who all the people were and where they came from. There didn't seem to be any discernible patterns. The mourners were of various ages and ethnicities and, given the states of dress, John deduced all from varying economic backgrounds. 

            "Good, keep going," the voice urged. John continued looking at the crowd blankly before it hit him. They weren't mourners. They were spectators, come to see the famous Sherlock Holmes, the great fraud, to see if anyone dared to defend him. John swallowed, feeling his stomach churn and his hands beginning to shake. He turned on his heel to storm out (he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing his pain) when Mycroft strode to the head of the room and place himself in front of the coffin. 

A blinding rage flashed through John at the sight of the remaining Holmes brother.  Despite Ella’s ministrations, John had not quite found it in his heart to forgive Mycroft for his role in Sherlock’s death. Without thinking, he walked forward and stood beside him, refusing to let Mycroft take control of the ceremony, the two of them forming a sort of receiving line.

            Sherlock had left very clear instructions about the wake. There was to be no eulogy (my work says more about me than any person can) so no chairs were put out. It was a closed casket (obviously) and just as John was thinking what a waste of time it was to have a wake with nothing to do, a man stepped forward and addressed himself to John.

            "I didn't know Mr. 'olmes personally but he saved my brother's life. 'e was bein' 'eld for ransom see but Mr. 'olmes figured out where they were 'oldin 'im and the poilce got 'im out ok.  The police were right useless though until Mr. 'olmes 'elped 'em out. I jus wanted to come an' pay my respects. I know 'e ain't a fake". The man shook John's hand, gave Mycroft a quick nod and left the room.

            As if waiting for someone to make the first move, the rest of the crowd surged forward into a line and began to recount their stories of how Sherlock had saved them or a loved one.  John felt his eyes watering and blinked back tears. These people weren't here to ogle "the freak" one last time. They were genuinely sorry he was gone and not one of them believed the rubbish the papers were printing (as one man so delicately described Kitty Riley's piece "she's right full of shit, in't she?"). Despite the large crowd, the procession moved quickly and the room soon emptied.

            "Well, that was unexpected," Mycroft said after a pause. 

            "What was unexpected? That all those people know I wasn't a fraud or that you were able to support your exceptional girth for that long without the aid of a chair or your precious umbrella?" the voice quipped. John shrugged and turned away to hide his smile.

            Mrs. Hudson shuffled forward towards the pair. Her make-up was beyond repair, running in thick streaks down her cheeks. 

            "Well I thought that was lovely. All those people had such nice things to say about Sherlock," she let out a small whimper and produced a sodden hanky from her clutch which she held over her mouth.

            "John, perhaps it would be best if you take Mrs. Hudson home now. The team should be here soon to move the body to the cemetery and proceed with the burial." Mycroft described the afternoon's events with the same emotion one might use when answering the question "what's the weather supposed to do today?"

            John wrapped an arm around Mrs. Hudson and led her from the room without a word. Although used to Mycroft's cold, clinical attitude, he still didn't like it. As John helped Mrs. Hudson into the waiting cab, he turned and looked back at the building. He could just see a featureless Mycroft through the window, dabbing at his face. Mycroft, crying? Showing real, human, emotion? More likely allergies. John got into the car and the driver pulled away from the curb, taking the remaining two inhabitants of 221 Baker Street home.

 

***

 

            It took some time for John to get Mrs. Hudson calmed down. When they arrived back at the flat she attempted to bustle around and take care of John as usual. This proved disastrous.  Her hands shook too much to hold the teapot steadily, resulting in spilled water and broken dinnerware, which in turn brought on a fresh round of tears. In the end Mrs. Hudson waved him away upstairs (no really, Dear, I'm fine, I'm just being silly, this will all pass). In the back of his mind, John knew he should stay and try to comfort her but he was too emotionally drained to try.

            John made his way upstairs to the eerily quiet flat. He changed out of his suit and into his everyday clothes. He had just sat down when Mycroft texted him. The text read, "It's done".  Something in the back of John's brain clued into what was wrong and the voice put his thoughts into words "Mycroft never texts if he can call." Maybe Mycroft _was_ crying at the hall. John picked up the phone and carried it downstairs. He knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door to find she too had changed and washed her face. Silently, John handed her the phone. She did the obligatory action that all people over 40 perform, holding the phone close to her face before slowly moving it out to arm’s length. When she finally took in the message, her eyes watered but she held it together, put on her coat, and grabbed a potted plant with a ribbon wrapped around it. John went outside and flagged a cab.

            The ride passed mostly in silence, Mrs. Hudson making several attempts at conversation but largely answering her own questions as soon as she asked them. When they arrived at Highgate, John paid the driver, and the two set off across the green.

            Sherlock's plot was a fair way away from the main road. Mycroft had insisted on placing him in the family plot which was, like everything else about the Holmes' lifestyle, larger than necessary and meticulously cared for. Although many family members bearing the Holmes name were buried there, the plot was large enough that there was no overcrowding.

            John passed by a tombstone from the early 1900s bearing Sherlock's namesake. A smaller tombstone sat directly next to it, placed closer than any of the other headstones had been. The name had worn away (or had it been scratched off?) and lichen covered most of the inscription.  Clearly this person (all John could make out was it was someone who's name started with a J and proceeded by a Mary) was the black sheep of the family. John waited for Sherlock's voice to kick in and tell him all about Great-Great Grandma Josephine who ran off with the milkman before realizing that Sherlock couldn't tell him about her because Sherlock was dead and the voice John kept hearing was actually his own mind.

            "John, are you coming?" Mrs. Hudson called, snapping him out of his queasy reverie.  John marched forward, eager to put distance between himself and Sherlock's Victorian counterpart. He caught up to Mrs. Hudson standing in front of a shiny black headstone with "SHERLOCK HOLMES" emblazoned with gold lettering.

“I’ll leave you alone to – you know,” she walked unsteadily back towards the main path, stifling a sob.

John opened his mouth and spoke his first words since waking from his nightmare that morning. “Uh, mmm. You, you told me once that you weren’t a hero. Um, there were times I didn’t think you were human but let tell you this. You were, the best man, uh, the most human, human being, that I’ve ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so, there.”

He checked over his shoulder and stepped closer to the headstone, placing his fingers awkwardly on the cold stone. 

“I was, so alone.  And I owe you so much.” 

On the brink of tears, John turned his back on the grave and began the trek back to the path before remembering his last request. 

“Oh please, there’s just one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me. Don’t, be, dead. Would you do that, just for me, just stop it, stop this.” 

John’s entire body heaved and he allowed himself fifteen seconds of defeat before regaining his composure.

            "I love you," he said softly. 

            The cemetery was quiet and his words probably carried to where Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him but John was too tired to care.

            "I love you too, John," said Sherlock. 

            John gave the headstone one last nod before turning and walking back to Mrs. Hudson.

            If he had of looked to his left he would have seen Sherlock standing behind a clump of trees. "I love you too John," he repeated, "and I'm going to get you that miracle."

**Author's Note:**

> I bent the s02e03 dialogue a little to fit my needs at the end. This is a fan-made work based off BBC's Sherlock, all characters and John's graveside speech belong to the BBC.


End file.
